Dyed Bones
by CGKrows
Summary: Death has lost sight of her Master. It thoroughly pissed her off, and left her without a clue. Now Death's nothing but a moody, lingering entity bored out of her mind... Until Nick Fury decides to crash into her modern lifestyle. Can Death find the one she has been seeking before she gets way in over her head? Who are these Avengers that try to stop her? What is Fury hiding?
1. Death is Delaneur

Death has lost sight of her Master. How it torments her, ridicules her for such foolishness. Now she's nothing but a moody, lingering entity bored out of her mind... Until Nick Fury decides to crash into her new-found lifestyle. Can Death find the one she seeks before she gets way in over her head? Who are these Avengers that try to stop her? What is Fury hiding?

* * *

**Chapter One: Death is Delaneur**

There are two principles that are constant throughout, effecting everything that exists. Two that many use as a distinction between Black and White. The Good and the Bad. The Angel and the Demon. It's the facts that weave such intricate patterns, the truths and the lies. Eventually, one will become the other; A cycle that the symbol of Ying and Yang capture in the purest sense. Nothing truly dies, nor does it last in its fruition everlasting. It's something that philosophers and the religiously-involved would contemplate or preach, but never be truly understood by the world at its core. They themselves can't clearly put such ideas to work, for they're almost, but not completely, clueless on its meanings.

Truly, it takes something or someone that is already nothing but an existing force to know. Humans call it an enlightenment to have answers to such questions. Others universal inspiration. Or a dream for a miracle. A hope. Yet if there was an individual to think about it, racing thoughts shall scream out opposite opinions. It is a burden to know the knowledge, a heavy reminder that neither the highest climax of the living nor the ultimate low of the nonliving can be granted to them. A perpetual state of repetition, rebirth, and overseeing. Patience is quickly obtained, as is a unique personality that comes with becoming compassionate, despondent, and jaded by the things seen.

A being such as that, a someone that had been existing since there had been a singular idea for the word, place, and state of **nothing**, is perpetually trapped within the ideology and illusion of a confined mirrored room. This room is likened to the very fabric of **nothing**, for it neither contains something within nor frees it. The space has no set size, no ideal length of width. It merely exists as the being exists. Simply _there_.

This being, trapped within such an encasing boundary, is just an idea. The idea that there is in fact an end, some form of completion. Be it the completion of one's entire living cycle, or simply the first step in ascension to the next plane of whatever there is beyond those that simply live. Human cultures have different looks upon the idea. The Europeans, during the Dark Ages, saw it as a desolate sign of doom and damnation. It held in its dried and cracked grasp a farmer's tool, to harvest the metaphorical 'wheat' of their hearts, the soul. The Egyptians saw it as more than one idea, but actually three: A scale in which their's life is weighed, a dog to record the proceedings, and a beast to eat such life if deemed unsavory in the world beyond. Those of Rome and Greece viewed that idea as a devious man who was as cold yet as hot as the pains before the end, ruling over those within his underworld caves that left the living.

So many ideas formed and lingered, a few lost in the passages of time, but all amounting to its constant existence. This idea, this being, this entity became glorified in colors staining its very being. Dyed bones. Tainted by the influences of the universes as a wholesome voice. Unending downpours with raindrops of paint, all in the end muddling together to create a dull shine out of the mucked gold luster it created. Draped in a ragged cloak of blackened shadows, of the **nothing** it continued existing in.

But that is only a single reflection within a mirror on the floor of the confined mirrored room, where such glorification resided of this thing. The floor was who it was, that knowledge better seen as a haunting reminder. Four other mirrors show something, reflect a view of someone or someones. A collection of corpses that lay cold, clutching at what air there was, where once were their possessions as one young man stood shadowed. Three men with their backs turned, one clad in metal, one bearing a bow, another a shield. Two Gods that stood with their profiles displayed, staring at one another with clashing eyes. Two women and a dark-skinned man, dressed in black and eyes closed solemnly. The ceiling was in contrast, a reflecting mirror showing nothing but black, with a single menacing form standing stolidly facing forward. Hide skin, twisted gold armor, eyes like the entity's very own yet holding no compassion for the suffering. An unconditional love that doomed all yet coveted it.

Thus was the figurative living hell for the one named Death.

* * *

An alarm went off at six o'clock in the morning. A beaten wooden bed frame creaked loudly as someone shifted on the stained broken down box-spring mattress, with discolored smoke-incensed sheets convulsing about as a tall form, which emerged from beneath. It was a thin, six foot tall woman, who groaned as the irritating beeping rang in her ears. She sat up groggily, the sheets pooling around her slim waist. An extra large T-shirt hung off her skinny frame, a cartoon image of a round black bomb with a short fuse displayed on the front, with a large letter F painted in white on it. The shirt itself was a patchy gray, little spots of ash smearing the short sleeves or the hem on the bottom. Very pale skin contrasted with the colors, and a head of very long but very dark raven hair cascaded down her back. The bangs were straight cut, thick lashes long with charcoal eyes. Black ink tattoos ran from the tips of her fingers up to the sleeves, disappearing beneath the fabric. They were patterns carefully mapped out, congealing together to create a depiction of dyed black bones drawn on top of her arms. On the inside of her wrist, at the very base, was a triangle. A circle rotated inside, cut in half by a single straight line.

Her piano-fingers curled to form a fist, and with a swift downward punch she crashed down angrily on the snooze button. A huff of relief escaped her. The same hand relaxed, dancing around the flat surface of a coffee table blindly for a pack of plain Red & White's. The woman slipped out of bed upon wrapping her thin digits around the double pack of cheap cigarettes, slipping on a pair of workmen's jeans that barely clung to her almost nonexistent waist. They were left unbuttoned and zipped open, showing off a bit of her ghostly underbelly and a large portion of her tacky faded rainbow-stripped underwear. She maneuvered through her room, dodging wrinkled piles of clothes, crushed but empty Red & White boxes with plastic packaging, tipped plastic cups filled with ash, and a number of differentiating blown glass pipes for smoking more 'questionable' substances.

Heading out the doorway into the more organized living area, the female mentally noted that it was high-time to clean up all that rubbish cluttering her bedroom. "Bloody need to get on that," muttered a feminine voice with clearly a Cockney British accent.

The very tall, thin yet mildly depressing woman was Death.

In the past ten or so years, life was getting to be a bit much for her. Some seriously bad personal shit had happened, hitting her pretty hard. Then following that not a few months later was the emergence of 'superheroes.' That didn't surprise her, since she'd been around from the very very beginning and seen her fair share. But what really did surprise her was the crazy U.S. super-secret agency division thing that now seemed to watch her like a hawk. Death wasn't at all pleased with that development, and she made it her personal mission to mess with them in any way possible while still being a complete and utter confounding mystery. There was a good reason for wizards and witches to fear her back in Britain, and damn did she know how to!

Since then, Death was living a lifestyle she was contented with: Owning a dead-alley warehouse from WWI that was in actuality a big Dubstep-House-Music-Techno Club with more than plenty of booze and a cooked-books gun market working out the back. Her 'apartment' (She was used to calling them flats) where she lived on and off, with her closet filled with outrageous outfits and black-market guns, while her guest bedroom was converted into a storage room for her computers and electronics. Death simply lived the grimy, ghetto lifestyle that seemed so very much dark and also highly attuned to the very acts of 'Death' at its finest. She didn't walk around in her 'natural' form anymore, not since the 18th Century in London. Plus that damn Wizarding War literally threw her off-course, so there was little reason to parade around as one of the most feared beings existing. Nowadays she left it to her vast armies of carrion birds to do her dirty work, and the shadows to tend to the souls newly deceased.

Death made it to her kitchen, tearing off the packaging from the double pack of cigarettes and snatching one up. She made a grab at her Hawaiian-patterned bar lighter, easily flicking it with her thumb and holding the white butt of the smoker to the raging little flame. Clicking it off, Death took a few healthy drags of smoke, breathing out the calming tobacco exhaust and watching as it twisted and warped around in the oxygen-filled air. Lord, did she enjoy smoking. As one person had pointed out over the course of her infinitely long existence, the entity didn't suffer like humans did from a smoking habit. Yes, Death did feel the bite of addiction, but she didn't have black lungs. Hell, she didn't even have _organs_, contradictory to contrary belief. But the strange warming heat it provided to her bones was welcomed, since there was not much to feel when you're something that's even older than the very universe itself. It gave her a semblance of _peace_, something that made her feel like she actually was one of the living mortals. A small comfort in a very long existence.

Banging around her kitchen with a cigarette hanging from her faintly pink lips, Death attempted to cook up some comercial-grade bacon with some low-grade eggs. Her pots and pans were not as bad a quality as the food she cooked in them, and not fifteen minutes later Death was sitting at the kitchen counter on a tippy barstool with a plate of bacon and scrambled eggs. She was still smoking, trying make the cheap cigarette last a bit longer and be worth at least half the money it was. At least the leaves used were of better quality than the less expensive Camels they offer at her local corner store. God's boney thumbs, those things just tasted _bad_. Horrible tobacco leaves, and not to mention worst aftertaste known to her. Not that smoking tobacco even had a very good aftertaste, but at least her Red & Whites didn't leave that much of one. Bits of ash fell on her Habanero-sauced scrambled eggs, looking like dusted Pepper seasoning. Death paused in her pointless process of eating, staring at the pinches of offending biproduct blankly, then shrugging her shoulders and shoveling the sustenance into her awaiting maw. It wasn't like that could even kill her.

An hour later, after Death had washed her dishes and tidied up the mess that was her kitchen, her iPhone started ringing on her bedroom coffee table as she was changing for the day. She growled, pausing in her process of stripping and snatching up the phone that was playing the song everybody nowadays associate with the term "Rick Roll'd."

"_We are no stranger to love . . . You know the reasons, and so do I . . . !-"_

"What the hell is it now, Hendricks? If you just called because you got off with that damn bloke from my warehouse, I'm bloody hanging up right the hell now."

"_Jesus, Delaneur, don't get those rainbow panties of yours in a twist! I'm callin' ya because a new shipment came in and already we got about twenty buyers for dem' all. Johnny was tellin' me not to sweat it, and that'd he'd handle the deals, but I was bein' cautious and thought to give you a ring_," spoke a young voice, being in his late twenties.

Death sighed. Since she couldn't go around calling herself Death like she did back in the Dark Ages, or like she did when Sherlock Holmes novels were all the rage, Death had to actually be creative and make up some name for herself. Sure, in the beginning they were a bit... stereotypical, but after a while, she honestly got bored and started picking them out of a hat. This time around, the immortal woman was named Delaneur, which was a butchered spelling of the French version of the name Delaney. She had a thing for names starting with D, she honestly couldn't help it.

"Well, I guess I should be thankful that you are careful, Hendricks. For a former drug-smuggling bloke, you are quite talented at dealing in Guns and not Meth."

"_Damn, you flirt with me too much, Dane-Lane. But thanks, I'll take the complement in stride_."

"Anytime, Hendricks."

"_See ya at 8Bits._"

"Bye." Death hung up, slumping her shoulders and taking another sharp drag and blowing out the smoke through her nostrils.

"By God, I need a better job," mumbled Death, not really putting herself to her words. Somehow she liked her lifestyle. Being poor was so much more entertaining than being some rich prick.

Delaneur went back to her dressing, slipping out of the grimy F-bomb shirt and freeing herself of the dirty rainbow-stripped undergarments that clad her translucent-skinned form. In their place was another set of rainbow undergarments, except they were newer and all in bright neon hues. little bits of black lace bordered the trim of each garment, making her look strangely seductive with the way those sharp colors clashed with her abyssal-black raven hair. A pair of snagged gray men's skinny jeans were put on, with sewn-on patches of checkered cloth to fix the holes formerly there. Then another shirt was yanked on, black with a large terminator skull promptly on the front, with the words NO FATE dripping red like the robot's red eyes. A pentangle was lazily drawn off to the side of its head, adding a very supernatural effect to it. Death buckled up her pants, a Hot Topic checkered stud belt on with a carseat buckle. A jacket with a deep zip hoodie was shrugged on, made to look like one of those silly skeleton Halloween costumes little kids would wear. Death's black nails held her cigarette as she looked at herself in the mirror, nodding approvingly. Damn did she look cool.

With that, Death grabbed a packed hiking backpack with its dependable aluminum-bar supports and ran out the door, cigarette smoke trailing behind her.

* * *

"I'm here at the back, Hendricks."

"_Alrighty, Dane-Lane. I'll buzz you in._"

**BIIIIIIIUUUUUUZZZZZZZZ...**

"Thanks. I will be up shortly. Tell Johnny to call Jackie and Beck in for gun-checks. Don't need this shit to go south on poor old John while putting my club in jeopardy."

Hanging up, Death strolled through the brick-based warehouse, climbing the steel stairs leading up to the VP lounge where most of the big deals were conducted with her little back-door business. Technically, Death wasn't actually affiliated with anyone on a gun-dealing basis. It was Johnny, or Johnny T. Reaves. The man was a dark-skinned gangster if she ever saw one, who knew plenty of people and was wanted by just as many. The bloke was a master when it came to guns dealing with modern warfare, being a former army man himself way back when he was in his twenties. Now he was in his late forties, still playing hard and dealing dirty. Hendricks, the late twenties ex-drug dealer, was a weasel among weasels and had a talent for taking shipments of whatever you wanted over more than one border and ocean. If Johnny knew people, Hendricks knew everyone on the entire planet. He and Johnny simply used her place as a hang out, and only involved Death (or should she say Delaneur?) because it was her club they were using and a few extra guns kept as blackmail for backup insurance didn't hurt anybody. Death by definition was a tricky individual, and had her fair share of complex riddles up her sleeves.

Walking in through one of the many doors overlooking the entirety of the warehouse, Death was greeted by the sight of both mortal men. With a single glance, she could see everything about them that could cause their very demise. Johnny was a sex addict, had a thing for weed, and had even more of a thing for overdosing on his special painkiller prescribed by his not-so-honest doctor. He'd probably find his end by a combination of drugs and weed, or by one of his own smuggled guns when he ripped off another Russian extremist. Hendricks was simply Hendricks. Everyone was out for him, and he was ingesting unhealthy amounts of Meth per day. It was a miracle the weasel hadn't even died yet, but Delaneur thought her shadows were catching up with him. Those dark charcoal eyes saw the lives of everyone's future, up to the very end. Nothing could be hidden from her... Just as nobody could hide from Death, besides its Master...

She winced at the very thought. Lord, if Delaneur even lingered on that path of thinking, she'd go to some unsavory places of her memory. Mentally shaking it off, she sat herself down on one of the posh leather couches she had in the lounge.

"So," she started, "Am I just to observe these proceedings, or do I actually have to help with the deals? Because you arse-heads probably forgot I don't _do_ deals."

Johnny smirked, "Course not, baby. You just gotta make sure it all goes smoothly. After all, this is your place."

Delaneur grunted roughly, "Damn night, you foolish leaf-chucker. If it at all gets tar tracked into my establishment, I'm handing you over to those Secret Service blokes. I like my club and care more for it than both of your existences."

The two shifted nervously, feeling the haunting edge to her voice that seemed far beyond a well-meant warning. More like a promise to _**end**_ them. And that didn't sit well with the two men.

They quickly shrugged it off, taking twitchy swigs from Whisky glasses and motioning a pair of their lackeys to retrieve the goods. Moments later they came back, followed by two very drab-looking women. They were Jackie and Beck Green. Those sisters were usually the reason half the guns were even sold. The pair were always buying them and selling them off for higher price, giving half their take to Johnny and Hendricks. Death felt something stir in her bones at the sight of them, and not something all that good.

"Hey Dane-Lane, watching the proceedings?" asked Jackie.

"Yeah, got any smokes?" questioned Beck.

Death rolled her eyes as she crossed her legs, showing off her studded sandal feet. She was on her third cigarette of the day, and wasn't about to hand out freebies to those cruel females. _slutty __whores, those two_, thought Death. The pale-skinned being growled low, watching as the spineless sisters swiftly backed away, hands up in surrender.

"Alright, alright! Don't get all touchy," spoke Beck, backpedalling to the couch Johnny sat at. They took up either side of him, already working their charms on the man while whispering in his ear.

Again another eye roll was extracted from Death. When did humanity become so degraded? She actually missed the days when honor actually meant something, and women actually had pride. Now nobody had anything, but materialistic valuables and pointless lives sitting in front of computer screens or a chair in front of a television. At least the party animals that frequented her club tried to live an active life. These ridiculous crooks weren't even classy like Al Capone or the Mob back when people smuggled alcohol to live the high life instead of guns and drugs. And damn did Death get along with Al Capone in those days! That criminal had _style_...

Delaneur's attention was drawn back to the deal at hand, watching as the two nameless lackeys unbuckled the reinforced cases and throw back to lids.

Then Death froze, shocked stiff. A curse slipped from her painted red lips, "Fuck."

Johnny looked up. "What?"

The being's pale face contorted with anger as she stared at the newly acquired weaponry. "FUCK!" she yelled, jumping from her seat and briskly walking back and forth with her cigarette between her stained ashen fingers. The smoke whirled around her chaotically as she moved.

"What's got you wound up all the sudden? There's nothin' in that case that ain't clean," complained Hendricks.

Death snapped her head in his direction, "Clean? _CLEAN_?! You think those god damn things there are **_clean_**?! Do you even know what the fuck those bloody weapons are? Because I can tell you right now that you are fucking _mental_ if you think they are clean!"

"Oh, _pleeeze_. Dane-Lane, they're collector's grade. Nobody's gonna be out for 'em. Those things just _look_ like bad news," drawled Jackie.

Delaneur couldn't believe the nerve of these dumb arses as she looked straight at the offending artillery. About seventy years ago, when the Second World War was raging and the fatality rate kept her and the helpers quite busy, Death had the pleasure of familiarizing herself with the weapons they used. H.Y.D.R.A. was one of the more creative divisions of the Nazi Party when it came to weapons manufacture. The guns were charged with something unlike anything Death had seen, and when hit with a single shot of the charged ray it expelled, the human body would disintegrate and leave _nothing_. Not even the trace of the human soul. And before her, set snugly in foam beds, were twenty of them with the well-known insignia of the former Nazi science division. Those super-secret government agents were bound to come bite her sorry arse after busting this deal.

"Get this complete and utter rubbish out of this establishment. Get. It. **OUT**."

"Why should we?" Challenged Johnny. Foolish arse.

"Because you are all incompentent, sorry excuses for criminals. Now take your crap and leave this club. I do not want to ever see you walk in here again."

"Like Hell, Dane-Lane! You're in just as deep as us, you can't just kick us out!" Cried Hendricks.

"_Damn m__otherfucking right I can! Get the fuck out!_" Death bellowed.

But it was a moment too soon, as downstairs in the club, the front doors were busted open and a flood of armored men stormed in. The back entrance could also be heard, crashing against the wall as men barked out orders. The four chicken-shits for crooks looked around wildly, the sisters screaming out hysterically.

Death suddenly felt calm amongst the chaos. Feeling annoyed now at the fact she'd have to give up her business with warehouse clubbing and move on to yet another profession. And she liked the current job so much...

"See what you have done?" She spoke quietly as they all tried to speak over one another in their panic. With one last drag of her third Red & White cigarette, Delaneur threw it down just as the soldiers came rushing in, vanishing with the plumes of tobacco smoke with her hiking pack clutched in her right hand.

* * *

Nick Fury was a very resourceful man. He liked having options, and he liked knowing them. Fury was also an extremely paranoid man, being someone in charge of one of the most secretive organizations that exist on the planet, not counting British Intelligence. He used his wide selection of options to keep track of possible threats and pending discoveries, making sure nothing jeopardizes the safety of the world nations.

But there were days when something would pop up on his ever-watching radar, something that usually warranted his full attention. One of those days happened about five years ago, in the month of July. She showed up out of nowhere in the middle of the San Francisco Airport, dressed in punk-rock clothes with charcoal eyes that were like the deepest pits of hell. Literally appeared out of thin air on CCTV camera. That had immediately gotten his attention, and since then he'd been trying to track her movements. Yet somehow she always left without a trace, leaving nothing but a cloud of tobacco smoke in her wake and a heap of trouble.

And now she was reported to have escaped the scene of a gun deal with relic H.Y.D.R.A weapons. Nick Fury wasn't at all amused.


	2. Inadvertently Gaining Attention

_I've never had a story become so popular in so little time. This thing already has over a thousand views and counting! I just wish all these followers and favorites could translate into a heaping ton of reviews. Pretty please? Enjoy the next installment, it's over 6,000 words._

* * *

**Chapter Two: Inadvertently Gaining the Avengers' Attentions**

Death was not exactly in the best of moods. In one single morning, she lost her warehouse and any extra amount of income she had going for herself. Yes, she could have actually fought for her back-alley club, and would have probably gotten it back, but Delaneur knew better. Not just anybody could fool with Death, and the leader of the super-secret agency division thing wasn't going to be that person. So all connections to that place were to be dropped. No ties left uncut, sipped, or slashed. Good thing she paid for everything in cash, because that wasn't easily traceable. Now she just needed to worm her way into another place in the underground society of New York.

And change her name **_again_**.

She was honestly just getting used to being called Delaneur, or '_Dane-Lane_' as those irritating scuttle-buts that smuggled guns she associated herself with had said. Now she had to start from scratch again. What started with a D that was unique but not too obvious? Debra? No, too plain and too American. Derrick? A bit masculine. Deirdre? Hah, Death certainly did not look like a Deirdre. Duncan? No, that was the name of a very good friend of hers. Maybe... Drake? That was technically a male's name, but it seemed to fit her appearance better. That was actually her friend Duncan's favorite male name. The nerdy genius was as gay as they come, but acted decently straight. Poor thing couldn't get a date worth a damn.

_Drake the Dragon of Death_, she thought amusedly. _Sounds like something Tim Burton created as a wicked spoof for Dragon Tales. Lord do I enjoy watching his movies_.

Death ambled about her apartment (She should just give up and call it a flat), filling jumbo garbage bags with all her homely material objects and piling them by the door. She was very quick at this, having done this plenty of times. Gather up all her stuff, put it in bags, make a few shadows whisk them away and deposit them in her newly acquired broken down Jeep, then possibly make a flashy getaway by painting the walls with ash spelling out the word, **FOOL**. Death did enjoy life in twisted fashions, but at least there wasn't any actual destruction. Tip of the hat for her. She blamed her Master for her change of heart.

The entity winced. She promised herself she'd not think about him. Her foolishness cost her, and now she wasn't about to harp on mentally about the one great failing she made in her entire existence. Death didn't regret anything, but yet here she was now. It was a horrible path to tread anymore.

With a shake of her head, the woman tied off her final garbage bag tossing it in the direction of the door and glancing over briefly. Wispy black nothing stretched out from the floor, snaking itself blindly around the bag. Within moments the shine of the thick plastic could not be seen, and the lump shrunk in size until it was nothing. The shadow slithered into the shade of the doorknob, disappearing completely. Death smirked, charcoal eyes glinting. Very efficient phenomena, shadows. They have no shape or form, and nothing can stop them besides direct sunlight. But with darkness, there is always light. Science proved it at one point, but the ancient being couldn't remember exactly when.

With the shrug of her thin yet wide shoulders, 'Drake' made her way to a blank wall, where the pale cream colored paint cracked and peeled in places. Her right arm rose, perpendicular to the offending barrier. Her ghostly hand took its time to come in contact with the crumbling surface, caressing it sensually as if greeting a lover in bed. Then Death's black nails dug into the wood, and with wild glee, the tall female ripped her arm against the wall. Thick grayish black powder was left in its wake, clinging to the wall as if a flame had been held to it.

Though a number of historians and philosophers would argue that 'death' deities do not all exhibit that supposed deathly 'aura' around them, Death herself could proudly say she could will a number of things to her demands. Forcing the metaphorical acts of death on inanimate objects, it was like taking a bitch away from her pimp. Who cares, as long as that bitch is being controlled, there was no so such thing as a predicament. Drake's movements stopped, her nails unhooking from the wall as she looked upon her handiwork.

The word **FOOL** had indeed made its way upon the wall, though it appeared as if the angry mistress of Destruction had ran her hands along its once pale surface and carved the singular word there instead of her.

Turning away, Drake's long piano fingers slipped into her jacket pocket, drawing out a fresh box of Red & White's. Tearing away the plastic, she tore off the top and plucked a single cigarette. Rooting around in another pocket with her free hand, the woman procured her silly bar lighter and flicked it on. Upon lighting her smoker, she stowed the pack and bar lighter away. Death stood there stolidly, her six foot tall skinny frame seeming out of place, taking in breaths of warming smoke only to exhale the fumes out of her nose.

"Ten... Nine... " She began in between drags, filling the room with pollution. A faint sound of yelling and car doors slamming rang in her ears. It sounded clear as a bell, but in reality it sounded distant and muffled.

"Eight... Seven... " Drake's lips puckered with a smirk as more and more smoke flew around the room, venting out through an open window. The pounding of booted footsteps could now be heard among the chaos she was hearing, along with one strong commanding order from a distinctly female voice.

"Six... Five... _Four_... " Death's disturbingly dark eyes shined deviously as they stayed locked on the front door, excited. The thundering sounds of feet were not far now, quickly ascending the termite-infested steps efficiently. Cries of panic clashed with the tempo of the beat, her neighbors afraid of the guns and SWAT-like armor the men were most likely carrying.

"_Three_... _Two_... _**One**_..." The woman pulled the cigarette away from her lips, holding it in front of her and poised. With a swift crash, the useless door was kicked open, and men poured into the room. Helmeted, armed, and all wearing a strange blackish-blue armor. _Most likely indigo_, thought Drake, unaffected by the sudden swarm of men. She noticed most of them had cameras mounted to their oversized protective skull coverings. Was that for their equally efficient leader to see? Death wouldn't honestly be surprised. Not that she was surprised easily. Nope, never.

The trained forces all filed into the apartment. They fell into tight formation, calling out positions and squad numbers then locking their guns and training them solely on her. the ancient entity calmly stood encircled by an overwhelming force, holding up her tattooed hand with the cigarette clinched between her lengthy fingers. Her dark eyes scanned their helmeted faces, analyzing their weapons. Heavy rounds, a few equipped with tranquilizer darts in their barrels. A bit more flashy than the usual attack force, but that was obviously because she now had an association in a black market deal with those H.Y.D.R.A. weapons. It pissed her off a good deal, but she expected the swift response.

A mortal woman slowly entered the room, her decently attractive face shrouded in a mask of indifference. She effortlessly maneuvered through the just as mortal soldiers, coming to stand within the circle that surrounded Drake. As soon as she had even driven up to her apartment complex, Death could immediately sense she held a commanding role. The female's posture was almost perfectly straight, her shoulders back and tightened like a coiled spring. The stranger that was of the female affinity had brunette hair in a severe bun with her lean muscled form outfitted in a slick jumpsuit. Chocolate eyes studied Drake just as she studied her, but the other woman couldn't see with the same depth as her.

Those charcoal eyes glinted, reading through the human's life like an Internet news article. A second-in-command to a secret organization known as S.H.I.E.L.D. _So that is the name of that super covert agency division stalking my sorry arse_, thought Death. Her name was Maria Hill, daughter of two average middle-class parents with a military background. Her talents as a tactician and in combat carried her to the top, technically. Her compulsive hobby was music, and she only had two lovers in her life. Hill was to suffer two possible paths: Dying in action saving countless lives, or playing her cello while teaching young aspiring musicians only to have an abrupt heart attack.

Staring a few moments longer in silence, Death offered the high-ranking agent a polite smile. She had no real reason to take her anger out on this woman, it was the man above her in rank that the manifestation had a quarrel with. _Too bad he didn't crawl out of his hiding hole_, she thought.

"Someday I'd like to hear someone play a decent number of measures on the cello," began Death, feeling abruptly sympathetic to the human before her. Damn her moody urges! The smile was supposed to be a ply.

Agent Hill lost her mask slightly, but quickly tried to rein in her feelings. "I didn't know a supporter of gun-smuggling, who owns a new-generation music club in a grimy warehouse, would enjoy classical."

"I was a real big fan, until I discovered sixties rock n' roll. Jimi Hendrix was beyond the fantastic on that fucking white guitar. You Americans and your bands..."

Maria huffed in an impassive display of amusement. "Better than the rock bands today. AC/DC should be banned." The deity could sense there was an underlying meaning to that statement, but did have a wish to explore it further.

Drake chuckled, both at the dry sense of humor the coldly professional agent displayed and the fact she, Death, was chatting with the second-in-command of her newest stalkers. "Lovely _chatting_ about music with you Madame Agent, but I don't usually have a damn fleet of Yanks barge into my fla-apartment. I'd like you to tell me what is going on." Her tone left for no discussion.

Hill was unfazed, "The director of S.H.I.E.L.D. would like to bring you in for questioning about the weapons you were going to smuggle with those four gun-traders."

Death snorted unattractively, "Oh sure, sending a couple of attack squads loaded up with heavy rounds and a handful of tranquilizer darts is a sure-fire way to request me to come with you. Remind me to do so when I meet you later on in your lifespan."

"It's a simple precaution."

"What? That I won't disappear and lead you along for another grand ol' chase hoppin' the pond with occasion, or that I'll somehow kill you all where you _motherfucking_ stand? Because honestly, my dear Agent Maria Hill, Death doesn't go walking unless the dealer knows what she's_talking_."

The once well-composed female lost grip of her mask, "The Director didn't tell me you knew about our agents tracking you."

Drake, unable to help herself, laughed wholeheartedly, the cigarette in her hand still smoking steadily on as bits of its ash fell onto the floor. "Of course! The Ceasar behind his walls of Fear and Secrecy! It's bloody classic. Haven't you watched enough of those crap tele shows here in America to know that the metaphorical 'Big Brother,' a priceless reference to a very insightful book I must say, will always be watching? With the way people feel about their government, I'm not the only one sensing the need to keep constant vigilance."

The human seemed to tighten her jaw, a sign of her emotional turbulence. "Delaneur Seyler, I request you come with us willingly. I don't want to bring you in by force, but I will have to resort to such actions if you do not comply."

Agitation clawed itself out from the trap of Drake's bones. This conversation she was having was quickly going nowhere for her; Maybe age was beginning to have something to do with it. "My name isn't Delaneur Seyler, and I don't have to do anything. If you bothered detaining the leaf-chucking, meth-induced dumbfucks that were my source of extra income, then you'd know they were the ones who brought those H.Y.D.R.A. weapons into the VP lounge, and thought the damn things were nothing but rubbish. They only had their rotted zombie-like minds set on the money. Which, might I add, I received eighty-nine percent of whenever they made a single penny. On more than one occasion I nearly lost the support of the Russian extremists because of their idiocracy..."

Agent Hill watched as this woman began circling, her one arm behind her back as if a sign of her gentlemanly upbringing, the other positioned in a relaxed pose with the cigarette still between her long digits. Then the young woman paused before Maria, staring her down with her towering height. She was easily Captain America's height, but with the heeled studded sandals the woman wore, she overtook the superhero ever more with an added three inches.

"...And I love Russians. They hold their liquor like nobody's business. They were extremely chaotic during their bout of vampire infestations, and all that constant turmoil on pushing forward into their period of Renaissance and Industrialism, but they came out so strong! I once shared dinner with Peter the Great, and damn did he know his wine. Too bad he suffered his end through beheading than a possible lasting tyranny. If only his son had his same ambitions..."

That left Maria Hill quite confused. Was this female insane? The tattoos that mapped out her arms were creepy enough, but the strange dialogue and the clothes she wore? The agent ws beginning to think her commanding officer didn't know what he was going up against.

"...Anyway, I'm pissed off and rambling on about my life to a secretive group of government stalkers. So, here are my final words, which happen to be a riddle: For now I am going by Drake. My real name starts with a D in English. It would start with an M in others. In obscure dialects, it begins with K or G. But in Native American, it is strictly a consonant letter. Who or what am I?"

With a smirk and a flourish of her hands, the cigarette feel limply to the ground. Smoke was cast thickly in the space Drake had once occupied, and now it was empty. Her disappearance had been quick, abrupt for the lack of a better word. Both perplexed, disturbed, and a bit unsure of herself since she had started working with S.H.I.E.L.D., Hill took her time calling the Director, glancing at the five squads now looking just as upset as her, except she had enough control left to hide it.

The phone was answered on the first ring. "_Status report._"

"She's gone again Sir, and I think the woman is officially unamused. I did have a chance to talk with her for an estimated five minutes, and the mounted cameras you requested recorded the entirety of it. It appears she was aware of us tracking her from the very beginning, which was information I was not privy to," said the Agent, her last sentence tinted with obvious displeasure.

"_That doesn't matter now, Agent Hill. What we got on our plate is what, I am led to believe, an unpredictable extraordinary being that's not too dissimilar from SS-04._"

Hill took on a look of confusion, forgetting to uphold her mask of indifference. "But Sir, SS-04 was in a coma when we found him. Our science division still can't make sense of his genetic code, or his possible origins."

"_Except for the fact this woman probably does_," retorted the voice on the other end of the line.

"We don't know that," she insisted.

A heaving sigh could be heard on the other line, "_All I _do_ know, is that if she ever comes in close contact, we're going to have consequences. I'm calling in the team; Report back to the Helicarrier and deliver that video footage you have. I will want to see it._"

"...Yes, Sir."

The line went dead.

* * *

Steven Joseph Rogers was a very honest man who didn't like bullies. His upbringing and personality proved that statement time after time, from the old yellowing newspaper columns dedicated writing about his services in World War II to his current 109 million Google search results as he was featured in the articles about the revolutionary team, the Avengers. The man was smart, adaptable, and well-regarded as one of the best military tacticians of his time. But that was also the problem. He wasn't from this time. Rogers was born in 1940 on the Fourth of July, and now he found himself living in the year 2013. As Steve's last enemy had put it, he was a "_man out of time_." He'd formerly been a scrawny, medical disaster on legs until he'd joined the military. Then a certain German doctor came into his life, and gave him a chance. The man was thus a Super Soldier, and as the war progressed, was regarded as Captain America. Nothing was the same after Steve crashed in the Arctic.

But after waking up and dealing with an abrupt need for superheroes, the lost young male who seemed to be shallowed up by the future, once regarded as the 'Star Spangled Man with a Plan,' made a place in that future for himself. It had been a year since Loki and his Chitauri invasion, and little happened. Bruce Banner, also known as the Hulk, ended up having a job at Stark Industries after Stark himself convinced him. Though the newly renamed Avengers Tower was technically a place for the superheroes to live, none of the actual members avidly lived there. It was their base of operations, sure, but nothing beyond that.

Banner had surprisingly moved into Rogers' old apartment in Brooklyn, taking the extra room. The two men became very good friends because of that, and any misconceptions that had been made on first-impressions was in the past. Tony Stark had retreated back to his Malibu home with Pepper, and then had to deal with his own Iron Man conflict that happened months before. It had honestly given Steve quite the scare, and it was also because of him Stark didn't do anything he'd ultimately regret. So afterward, Stark ended up living in one of the penthouses he owned in New York, coping from his battle back in California; Let's just say it resulted in him loosing his house and giving him plenty of property damage to pay. Thor was still in Asgard, though he somehow contacted Fury and told him he would return in three weeks' time. Natasha and Clint weren't being complete strangers, visiting Steve's apartment a great deal to keep them all up to date. The pair of assassins stayed in the Helicarrier, which was designated as the official S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters since the attack. Everything seemed to be going well for Steven Joseph Rogers, until he was once again interrupted during his time at his favorite gym.

The super soldier was pounding away at one of the many sandbags he purchased for his use, with its obvious battle scars mapped out with cherry-red canvas thread. His perspiration-stained workout clothes clung to his thickly muscled figure, the slick film of sweat gluing the fabrics to his skin. His cheeks were blushed from exertion, the hairspray he used to rein in his dark blonde tresses failing from the strain Steve's regimen put it through. Not that the super soldier cared. As long as he didn't look unpresentable, he was fine with it. His wrapped fists continued pounding, a steady rhythm echoing in his ears. Lulled him into a state of unsettled calm, allowing his thoughts to wander. His reoccurring nightmares still avidly haunted him, weighing heavily on his mind. As much as he wanted to let the memories to rest, they always found a way to come right back.

"I see nothing much has changed since my last time here."

Steve's head jerked up, his arm shooting out to still the sandbag. There stood Nick Fury, a very resourceful man and the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., dressed in an all-black suit with his eyepatch decorating his scarred face, holding a collection of Manila folders stamped with a very familiar insignia. Rogers had enough courage to visibly sigh in front of the man. The super soldier was finally becoming comfortable with his future lifestyle, and now the Avengers were being called in once again. He had a feeling his team would not be at all happy about this...

"Fury."

"Rogers," acknowledged the dark-skinned male.

"I have a sinking feeling this meeting has something to do with my team," began Steve, a hint of his irritation coming out in his tone of voice. The super soldier went about unwinding the gauze he bound his hands with, not wishing to look at a man that would have used the Tesseract to make weapons.

"You're correct in that assumption. We're on the precipice of having a chaotic situation, stemming from an unsuspecting source. It's potentially as dangerous as Thor's half-brother, maybe more. The rest of the team are being called in, and they'll be needing their leader."

Steve grimaced, turning back to the Director with heated eyes. The dark-skinned man had the gall to act like their last encounter was just trash in a dumpster. "With all due respect, Sir, I sincerely hope you're not leading my team down the wrong road again. I told you a year back what I'd do if you dupe us, and I'm not about to back down on that."

Fury didn't even try to look composed anymore, with his jaw clenched and his body tense. That single steely eye of his stared at the super soldier in front of him. The Director had hoped to avoid this topic, but it seemed there was no way around it. "I remember, _Captain_. But you need to push that contempt aside and get yourself in the game. This is a threat that could easily level the city with her left pinky than Loki and the Tesseract."

The super soldier looked at Fury skeptically, uncertain. He had freed his sandbag, and was now holding it by the chain without much effort. "Just who or what is this threat, Sir?"

A dark expression clouded the Director's eye, "Are you familiar with any ancient world history, Rogers?"

Steve nodded with a slight look of annoyance. "I did have a life before the Serum, Fury."

Nick twitched at the statement, "Well, how much do you know about Hades, Anubis, Shinigami, or any number of the myths surrounding Ravens?"

Rogers' eyes shot up, an incredulous expression upon his face. "I don't know anything about Shinigami, which I think is Japanese, but the others you named are all... Well, related to death," his baby-blue eyes so expressive you could see the years turning in his head. "Is this threat mythical like Thor in some way?"

Fury nodded shortly at the blonde. "We have suspicions, mainly based on very vague bits of information and a riddle the person in question taunted us with, but the analysis points towards something to do with Death deities, or legends on the origin of death."

"That's a scary thought, Sir. Nothing ever goes down well when people like us meddle with Death," spoke Rogers, sagely in tone and voice. The man wasn't stupid, and he knew enough from those myths that whoever usually stood in Death's way was either punished brutally or subjugated to some type of curse.

"Are you afraid yourself, Captain?" questioned the one-eyed man.

Steve, having packed up most of his boxing gear away while they were talking, turned sharply to the Director. His face became a visage of seriousness, eyes solemn but hard. Rogers threw his sandbag over his shoulder, his duffle on the other. The super soldier was silent as he collected his thoughts, then spoke:

"When I was touring Europe with my old team, shoving through the snow or maneuvering through war zones, we saw plenty of the destruction the War caused. A young French boy, who had served as a runner for our communication during the days we served on the front, had been with us for five weeks in the field before the kid took a bullet to his chest. Bucky and I felt that the kid should be buried, and our teammate Jacques, who was French himself, agreed reverently upon finding out."

Steve paused, looking dazed as he distastefully recalled his memories, "But some of the fellow soldiers suddenly argued that the corpses served as _replacements for the sandbags_ used for the trenches. We were bent on burying the kid, but when the Germans came back full-force, those men had taken the corpse and did just what they preached. I was furious, but Dugan somehow stanched the situation. A day later, they all died when mortar's hit their trench. It then that James Falsworth, Union Jack, told us an old saying that haunted us for the rest of our service..."

Rogers looked up at Nick Fury, staring him straight in the eye. "...'Don't speak ill of the Dead, because Death will take her toll.'"

The Director stared at Steve Rogers, siezing up the super soldier before him with his one good eye. Captain stood firm but serious, baby-blue eyes appearing almost light gray under all the artificial light. Fury had honestly not expected the man to tell him about his past in the War, but the commander understood what Rogers was meaning to say.

"You respect the ideals of death," said Nick, though what he spoke came out as more of a statement than a question.

Steve simply stared back. "Enough of my friends are dead, Director. When I die, I'm going to join them. I'd rather be on good terms when I go than bad." Those words were a sad reminder of the truth for the soldier, and Fury knew it.

"Your Quinjet leaves in an hour. The briefing is at sixteen hundred hours. I expect to see you there."

With that, Nick Fury turned on his heels and swiftly marched away, leaving Steve to stare after him.

* * *

_**Meanwhile...**_

Death, or 'Drake' as she was to be named for a temporary amount of time, laughed. It was good to be out and about, especially when there was such a thrill in running away from authorities.

_Too bad it's going to start getting tricky from here_, she thought sadly as her commandeered rusted jeep rolled along the streets of New York.

Drake really hoped she didn't have to badly injure or maim anybody who decided to declare 'War' against her. She wasn't the world domination type of person. The entity was just trying to kick the habit. Yet as the woman puffed cigarette smoke into the open air, she realized the idea of her not stopping them from messing with her duties was probably as futile as her turning off the strangely catchy Kelly Rowland song blaring out of her radio.

Which was a definite _No_.

All she was sure about, was that going to an underground strip club she discovered three years ago sounded really good right about now.

* * *

Steve Rogers sat in a leather office chair, leaning back slightly but still very much aware. As a person, he always considered himself an overly observant individual. Being an artist that had a habit of being a stickler for detail, his eyes often picked up on the subtle aspects of things. For instance, he noticed that his teammates all had their various expressions of displeasure open for view. The slight knit in Black Widow's brow, an unbidden glower in Hawkeye's eyes, a twirk of Stark's lips that revealed his distaste, the the extremely nervous twitching of Bruce's hands, and what he pictured himself to be, with his lips drawn in a straight line and his eyes staring with a fiery intensity.

Then there was Agent Maria Hill and Director Nicolas 'Nick' Fury, standing at the head of their meeting table, with Fury not at all considering the chair that was before him. His hands simply gripped at the back, giving some of his weight to that poor seating. His expression was hard for Steve to read, but what he could find involved irritation. With the super soldier's experience, a pissed-off team and an irritated Fury usually produced an unwanted product of an argument. The Captain took a deep breath, preparing himself for a possible domestic disaster.

Fury was the first to speak, of course.

"As you are all now gathered here, with an exception of Thor for obvious reasons, you have heard what our analysts have discovered about this threat."

The leather-clad man turned to Hill, nodding to her. A remote appeared in her hand, and with a click of a button, the room went dark and a presentation on the wall behind the Director. Said man moved away from the display, standing to the side with a stern expression. Agent Hill clicked the remote with a resounding snap in the silent room, revealing a photo taken somewhere in the back alley of a warehouse. A thick set of gated doors barred a single graffiti-covered door, with a badly-constructed buzzer visible from the angle the picture was taken. A young woman stood with her back turned to the gates, arms crossed. Steve blinked owlishly at the sight, just as the rest of his present team members were.

The woman was both extremely bizarre, hauntingly beautiful, and malevolent in an otherworldly fashion. She stood at a height Steve guessed to be around his, which was shocking, with a pair of studded heeled sandals that gave her an extra three inches. Her frame was thin, long appendages with a long body. The way she was built almost made him think she was actually a young man, due to the fact she had no prominent hips and her chest was almost as flat as a board. The female had sharp facial features that reminded him of his long-passed British companion James, with the cheekbones set in a somewhat royal fashion and the curves of her skin defined. Her hair was dark raven-black with straight cut bangs and without a single curl or wave. The woman's hands had detailed tattoos of black human bones, from the tips of her fingers and up her sleeves. The clothing she wore consisted of a scary shirt with the words **NO FATE** in red, faded gray skinny jeans with a studded belt, and a large black jacket with the human skeleton printed on it where you'd expect her bones to be on her body. But what unnerved Rogers most was her eyes. They were a Charcoal color of black, with no sign a pupil or defining iris. Just a large black dot and the whites of her eyes. Very disturbing.

"She must be a fan of Acid Rock the way she's dressed. Or hardcore Punk, but the level of overall style makes me think otherwise," spoke Stark.

Steve rolled his eyes good-naturedly at the comment. Natasha spoke up, "She's probably around the age of twenty-five, maybe younger. Her height is makes it hard to judge."

Hawkeye nodded in agreement. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say she would be old enough to be in college."

"Her eyes freak me out plenty. Anyone seen any of those cheap-shot horror films with those young girls with black eyes? Maybe this girl tried to make a break for it from the movie set."

This time the whole team rolled their eyes at Tony's snarky comments. "She could be a mutant," commented Bruce, speaking for the first time as he continued staring at the projected picture.

"Xavier proved that earlier theory wrong," answered Fury, "though she does behave a great deal like their specialized mutant codenamed _Nightcrawler_. The mutant has a talent for transporting himself great distances with the byproduct being a cloud of blue sulfuric smoke. Her," he pointed at the image, "known talent is actually the opposite. She utilizes smoke to transport herself. The woman's trademark is smoking a cigarette from a pack of Red & White and using the tobacco smoke to disappear several meters away."

"Well that's creepy," stated Hawkeye.

"I'd say! What type of alien or creature can take carbon dioxide, harness it, and turn that into energy for spacial teleportation?" Said Stark.

"If she's some sort of foreign life, it's a possibility that her body developed differently than ours and allows her to essentially process carbon dioxide and expel energy for teleportation like a plant," suggested Bruce.

"Yeah, a fantasy videogame plant. But how'd she get here? Did she park her UFO at the County Fair?" Joked Tony.

"There could have been an unknown crash somewhere, or she arrived here the same way Thor has," spoke Steve, finally throwing in some input.

Maria Hill looked skeptical at their ideas. "If I can interject..."

The Avengers instantly quieted.

"...At about zero-four hundred hours, which would be four o'clock in the morning, this picture was taken outside an unlabeled warehouse located in the slums of New York today. It is known around the neighborhood as an unlicensed club called _8Bits_, and regarded as the territory of high-end gun smuggling to the FBI and the NYPD. The place was raided by me personally because of three illegal shipments of H.Y.D.R.A. weapons that the smugglers had procured, though they did not understand that the guns were still active and dangerous. This woman," Hill pointed to the female in the image, "both owns the warehouse and partisipates in the deals, supposedly as a witness on the slide lines to ensure nothing goes wrong.

"After taking the smugglers into custody, we learned that she had indeed been present. Her name, or the alias she used to buy the warehouse and negotiate with these criminals, was Delaneur Seyler. The nickname they refer to her as was, 'Dane-Lane,'" Tony snickered at that, "and those smugglers feared her. Apparently most of the New York underground as well. Under interrogation, it is reported that Delaneur was furious upon finding out they had acquired the H.Y.D.R.A. weapons, and was ready to kick them out right before I lead my team in."

"She knew what they were," stated Rogers.

Hill nodded, "Upon suspicion, we then visited her apartment building and found her there, smoking in an emptied flat. She was not at all phased by the weapons or my presence, and went on to comment on a very personal matter of mine as if it was a amiable conversation topic. Shortly after she questioned our appearance and immediately became angered, then went on to defend herself by explaining her side of the story. And with a few passing words, the young woman threw her cigarette on the ground and vanished."

The team collectively blinked. Tony was the first to recover.

"Impressive story, but am I missing something? Because beyond the fact she seems to run a gun business out the back of her ghetto club-bar for extra income, I don't see how she's a threat to us."

Steve nodded, joined by other signs of affirmation from the team.

Fury spoke up, "We've had encounters with her before this one, Stark, and she's no defenseless alien. There are ten different incidents before this one, with her taking on a different alias each time. The woman has an attachment to using names starting with the letter D, and is a compulsive chain smoker. She single-handedly defeated an armed enemy force in the Middle East with nothing but a pair of jack knives and her bare fists. With a flick of her wrist, she made a cloud of smoke from a combusted car into a form of shield to stop oncoming gunfire. The woman displays bouts of moody behavior, and possesses the skills of a heavily trained parkour-enabled soldier twice her body mass. _Grim_ is not an innocent in any sense of the word."

"Grim?" Questioned Steve.

"Her gifted codename, due to her upper body skeleton tattoos and the costume jacket she customarily wears," supplied Agent Maria Hill.

"I guess instead of watching a horror film you decided to watch _The Grim Adventures of Billy and Mandy_. Oh, that's a good laugh if any." Drawled Stark with a smug expression. Natasha sighed loudly at the millionaire's behavior.

Steve spoke again, "Do we have any more information?"

Agent Hill answered, "It seems she's been on Earth, or living on one of the land masses longer than we'd thought. When I confronted her, she brought up Peter the Great from Russian history. Said she had the pleasure of having dinner with him, and something about the paths he had chosen for death."

Natasha's head shot up, "You mean Пётр Алексе́евич? Or also known as _Pyotr Velikiy_? I know enough to say that's dated to be during the sixteen to early seventeen hundreds."

"That's older than Capsicle ten-fold. To think there's someone still walking around that's not Thor who's that old," commented Tony.

Fury nodded. "Which is exactly why this is such a high-level situation."

"Can I say something?"

Everyone turned to Banner, who fidgeted with his hands as he spoke. "If this Grim has been living here for well over hundreds of years, why is she becoming a threat now? Even if she's powerful and probably a large risk, so is everyone else in this room. Not to mention Thor. And if she's some sort of death-harrowing alien life form, what are we going to do?"

Fury shifted his stance so he faced the scientist straight-on. "If that's all possible, what do you think that means, Doctor? If the laws of life and death become corrupt, how can anyone say that who're meant to die? What if this woman got bored? What are we going do about that?"

Then the superheroes understood where the Director was going with his speech. "You think a _natural occurrence of life_ can become corrupt? What are we, Zeus and Apollo?" Tony said incredulously.

"What we're _going_ to do is bring her in for interrogation," said Fury. "If she's at all a threat, I'm putting her in containment."

Yet Hawkeye asked the question that seemed to be ignored throughout the whole briefing. "How do you know she is Death, or some type of death-related boogie man?"

Agent Maria Hill clicked her remote to change the image on the screen, showing a form of riddle.

"'For now I am going by Drake. My real name starts with a D in English. It would start with an M in others. In obscure dialects, it begins with K or G. But in Native American, it is strictly a consonant letter. Who or what am I?'" Read aloud Steve.

He turned to Fury, "I thought we don't actually have a real name for her."

"Drake is the woman's new alias. She changes them whenever she's close to being caught."

"What goes this riddle have to do with anything?" Urged Tony.

"Our analysts took a while but figured out the riddle. Death is her name in English, Muerte in Spanish, Morte in Italian, Marwolaeth in Welsh, Kuolema, Guasto, Tuqu... " Agent Maria Hill faded off in her explanation, noticing the looks on the team's faces.

"You got to be kidding me," stated Hawkeye.

"Why does it seem that we always have to deal with the crazy mythological bad guys? Can't we fight against the Stay-Puffed Marshmallow Man from Ghost Busters?"

"Stark, this is serious," reprimanded Natasha, her tone like that of a mother scolding her child.

"I knew this wouldn't go well," muttered Steve, noticing that Banner smiled lightly next to him, having heard his comment.

"Sir."

Everybody silenced themselves, noticing the unnamed agent, run into the room.

"Report."

"For once we got lucky... and located her, Sir... We've located Grim..." Spoke the young man, winded from his sprinting.

"Where?" Said Steve, in a tone that he often thought as his commanding voice.

The rookie agent turned to him, somewhat wide-eyed, "She's in the Lower West Side of New York, in an underground drug house. It's actually a run-down strip club," stated the agent.

They all collectively turned to Fury, whose jaw was set.

"Agent Romanoff, this is going to be a situation similar to previous assignments," said the one-eyed man, watching as the woman nodded. His dark gaze fell on the Captain, "Rogers, you and your team are going to go and locate Grim. Disguise yourselves in civilian clothing and infiltrate the place. Be on your defensive; even though the woman's scared every criminal into submission, she knows how to use each one to her advantage..."

The team waited expectantly for the magic words.

"Suit up."


	3. Steve has a Chat with Death

_So I realized that I'm challenging the rules of this type of story to the fact that Harry has not appeared yet. Congratulations, you finally realized that. But does anyone understand that little conversation Fury and Hill had in the last chapter? Because that was your biggest bloody hint on the entire storyline. Go back and reread if it didn't dawn on you. As for this chapter, I couldn't help myself but put the Avengers in this kind of situation. It's also going to hopefully help you understand Death a bit more, but maybe not. She's a bit moody... Enjoy and please do review!_

_P.S Sherlock Holmes is my dippity-dog-daisy bro. I must write something involving him sometime or my mind will explode rainbows!_

* * *

**Chapter Three: Steve has a Chat with Death**

Steve Rogers wasn't as isolated as many thought he was. He could happily blame all of it on Tony Stark. That playboy had literally dragged him, with a great deal of immature whining and effort, to a Gay Bar once. The entire ordeal reinforced his unyielding belief he was straight. He didn't have a problem with those types of people, but with his appearance, almost every one of those males had flirted with him. That made the poor man uncomfortable, to say that least. Stark had later struck again, dragging him to yet another destination: the Strip Bar. That was a complete and utter culture-shock for the super soldier who was frozen in ice for _well_ over seventy years. And the biggest embarrassment in his entire life, especially since one of those ladies tried and failed to give him a lap dance. Lord knows how far Rogers would stay away from those types of establishments.

But now that the Captain and his team were ordered by Fury to infiltrate a strip club-drug house, you could say the man wasn't exactly thrilled. It was located in the worst part of town, even by 1940's standards, as nothing more than a grimy hole in the wall with a neon sign that said '_Blown Away_' in suggestive cursive followed by a picture of a bright green leaf twisting around as if caught in a breeze. Stark had been nice enough to explain that said leaf was actually referring to a form of recreational smoking that was once illegal but was somehow becoming allowed under the law in certain states. _Weed_ Tony called it, or _Pot_ as Clint had said.

Natasha simply asked to borrow his complicated smart phone and look it up on Wikipedia for him:

"**Cannabis**, also known as **marijuana** (from the Mexican Spanish **marihuana**), and by numerous other names, is a preparation of the_Cannabis_ plant intended for use as a psychoactive drug and as medicine. Pharmacologically, the principalpsychoactive constituent of cannabis is tetrahydrocannabinol (THC); it is one of 483 known compounds in the plant, including at least 84 other cannabinoids, such ascannabidiol (CBD), cannabinol (CBN), tetrahydrocannabivarin (THCV), and cannabigerol (CBG).

Cannabis is most often consumed for its psychoactive and physiological effects which include euphoria, relaxation, and increase in appetite. Unwanted side-effects include decrease in short-term memory, dry mouth, impaired motor skills, reddening of the eyes, paranoia and anxiety."

Why anyone would want to use that type of drug was beyond Steve. But nonetheless, the super soldier and his team had to walk into a place full of those kinds of people with near-naked women and plenty of alcohol. Steve dressed appropriately with the help of Black Widow, which was certainly welcome help. He didn't want his leather jacket to smell of smoke, or his usual clothes. The man was clad in a jacket much like his own, except darker in color. He wore some sort of graphic shirt, with his shield printed on his chest with an edgy design. A pair of faded jeans hugged his hips, and converse sneakers covered his feet. The soldier sadly had to leave his hair unkept, which meant it wasn't slicked back in its usual 1940's fashion. It looked ruffled, golden tresses falling halfway over his ears. To him it just felt _weird_.

The others had to outfit themselves too. Tony, being the most at risk for blowing their cover, wore a large brimmed beanie and a pair of what he called 'hipster shades' to hide his face. Instead of his nice suits, a thick black cotton long-sleeve and a dark gray zip-up hoodie were being worn instead. He had on one of his pairs of work jeans, with oil stains evident on the legs. It seemed to help his overall average everyday Joe disguise. Natasha wore an outfit that Steve assumed to be appropriate for 'clubbing,' with a low long-sleeved V-neck colored a rich pinkish crimson and short black denim shorts. Cheap jewelry covered her wrists and suggestive stockings with ripped up the sides of her legs. A pair of platform heels were worn, plain red with an extremely shiny gloss. With the makeup she had on her face, she was sure to look like a woman looking for a little 'trouble' at night. Bruce dressed similar to Tony, except he decided to skip the shades and beanie and simply went without his wire glasses. Barton wore a tight-fitting shirt and jeans, showing off his muscles with a cheap fedora knocked-back on his head. A pair of slick shades were perched on the hat, making the intimidating arrow-shooting assassin seem like a normal middle-class guy going out for some fun.

Together, they were a motley crew. The two agents told Rogers that this kind of assignment was easier than most jobs they had working with S.H.I.E.L.D., but could be just as troublesome with the amount of civilian exposure. The Captain didn't doubt that, and hoped he could concoct some sort of plan after they got in. Bruce was nervous, but at least helped them by handing out earpieces that were not as easily spotted as a bluetooth headset. Tony looked as cool as a cucumber, and not at all phased at the fact he was about to walk into a drug-infested strip club filled with both the rich and average. Stark was actually the one to tell them that the place was actually a well-known spot for the less-liked devious business men, similar to his former partner Obidiah in style. Basically, sleazy men with enough money to look good but played dirty.

That just thrilled Rogers.

"You don't exactly look happy," said Tony, who was to the man's right as they walked towards the club door.

Steve glared at the billionaire, "I blame you for forcing me to go out about the city with you all those times."

Tony smirked, "I bet you do, Cap. I'd be disappointed if you weren't."

The blonde glowered at the richer man, with Banner looking amused. Natasha then spoke up, "Do we have a plan, Captain?"

Steve looked to his left, where the redhead Russian walked almost at his weight with her platform heels. For once, he honestly felt sheepish on the job. "To be honest, I'm not sure how to approach this," he admitted.

"Not to worry Cap, I think I might have one," said Clint.

The Captain raised a brow in his direction, "Let's hear it."

"Well, since Grim is supposedly over a hundred years old and a bit of a fan of historical people, maybe you should find her and try talking to her. You're not some Russian tyrant, but you are somebody who single-handedly changed the tide of World War II. Usually I wouldn't suggest this kind of contact with a threat like her, but since she's a bit more of a conversationalist than most, maybe you can persuade her. Meanwhile, the rest of us can spread out and make some form of perimeter, then listen in if anything goes south," explained the assassin.

Rogers mulled the plan over in his head. It actually wasn't that bad of an idea, except he was going to be the one confronting the target _that could very possibly influence death_ and not act as back-up. Not that he was afraid, the man was just wary. Maybe he could learn more about the mysterious woman named Drake. Steve did have a knack for getting people to trust him; Mainly because he was honest to a fault. All he hoped was that Tony didn't make a fool of himself in the club, though there was still a possibility he behaved.

The Captain nodded to Hawkeye. "This could work, but only if Stark doesn't act out."

"Hey! I can play nice."

Bruce rolled his eyes subtly, "Says the man who's self-proclaimed as a Genius Billionaire Playboy Philanthropist," he muttered. Tony smiled cheekily at that.

The five superheroes quietly walked along the alley, trying to remember they were undercover as night-clubbing civilians. Natasha and Barton buddied up together, arms around waists and a red head of hair resting on a shoulder. Stark, in attempt to make Rogers look inconspicuous, grabbed the man's arm and put him in-between himself and Banner. From there the billionaire attempted to make some form of late-night conversation. At a distance, it appeared to the bouncer who stood outside as though they were a clubbing couple and a trio of partiers. As the group approached the door, Steve nodded politely to the bouncer. The large black man nodded back, opening the grungy door for them.

As soon as the crew stepped in, music blasted into their ears. The deep bass thumped against their chests, scratchy tunes and lucrative yet suggestive phrases echoing through the space. Smoke was heavy in the air, twisting and curling in on itself only to grow larger with each periodic puff of someone's cigar. The lights were dimmed, an orange glow that made the wild dancing of the girls stripping free of their clothes all the more sultry. Each wall was painted black, gilded mirrors placed here and there. Each small stripper stage was lit with a different colored light, each woman dressed in a varying outfit. Feathers, leather, lace, spandex, rein stones... A new fantasy for each high-paying man. Tables were placed with appropriate gaps of space, a large bar stacked with drinks and cigarettes to one wall, and what seemed to be a VP area in the far back. Leather booths were along the sides, men with females on them and around them. All the while, conversations seemed to rise and fall in volume, challenging the music but drowning out one another to create an almost static buzz.

Steve Rogers noticed all of this, but some details caught his attention. Not in a bad way, but more as a peculiar observation. He noticed that nearly every person in the club, including the female attendees, wore some form of dark color. There were small splashes of neon getups, a white tailored suit or a lavender tie, but nothing too bright. Yet the strippers were in striking contrast. Vibrant corsets, glossy pink ribbons, metallic makeup creating exotic patterns on their faces like war paint. Polished plastic heels, bizarre feathered or furred boas, it all seemed to appear like some twisted viewing tent in a circus to Rogers. His team were like a minuscule drop of paint that spilled onto a dark oak table by accident.

Really, the super soldier's thoughts were too artistically poetic for some sketchy strip joint full of chain smokers.

Shaking away those thoughts while taking a quick glance at his fellow teammates on last time, he broke away and weaves through the crowds of people. The others moved about, spreading themselves out with a wide berth while eyeing their Captain. They had to maintain some sort of perimeter, especially when diving into a situation where they have no idea what their target will do. Steve carefully made his way between the tables and stages, skirting along the walls as his baby-blue irises scanned the faces around him for charcoal spheres.

Then Rogers caught sight of her, located in the very far back sitting alone in a large booth to the corner of the establishment.

Drake was leaning back into the plush red leather seating, elbows resting on the top cushions as her long arms draped down lazily. Kept between two fingers on her right hand was a stub of a cigarette, weakly burning. The woman was wearing the same outfit as she did in the photo Fury had shown his team, except her hood was drawn over most of her face not including her faintly pink lips and pale-skinned jaw. Raven black hair poured down her slim body and stopped at her waist, legs crossed in an uncaring fashion.

On the table in front of Drake was a serving dish you'd expect a waiter in a posh restaurant to use, but its contents were not of the normal variation. It was a half-destroyed Aztec pyramid of cigarette packs, specifically Red & White. Plastic packaging and crushed cardboard littered the table's surface, along with a single tall glass containing a pathetic puddle of what Steve assumed to be alcohol. Across from her was a plush leather couch with the same bright red coloring as the booth she sat at, empty of occupants.

"_I spotted her_," intoned Rogers, speaking specifically to his team listening through their earpieces.

"_Great, now you just gotta strut along up to her and start some conversation._"

"_Your dating advice is inspiring to us all. Go ahead Captain, don't bother with the playboy over here._"

"_Love you too, Legolas. I'm happy that nobody cares to listen. Make sure not to get too drunk with Nat._"

"_Shut up, Tony,_" said Steve, who was quickly approaching Drake's table. The line went quiet hence, leaving the blonde to smile to himself.

The man came up to the table, drawing the attention of the person that had gotten Fury into an unhappy fit. Drake smiled lightly at him, pushing back her skull-decorated hood to reveal her otherworldly charcoal eyes.

"Hello there, Cap'n. It's been quite a few years, eh?" She said, catching him completely off-guard. His eyes widened slightly. Through his earpiece, he could hear Tony choke hoarsely on his scotch across the building at the bar with Bruce; Natasha cursed thickly in Russian under her breath.

"H-How did you-?"

Grim cut Steve off as she held up her hand, "Ah-ah! No questions until you sit. I'm not in the mood for all this strangely formal wish-wash that spies call espionage. I'd rather sit here puffing away at these lovely tobacco leaves while having a perfectly causal conversation with you than deal with glower-matches. I've won plenty of those."

Nodding carefully yet uncertainly, Rogers slid onto the leather couch, settling himself on the extremely cushioned seating. He stared at her for a few moments, then asked, "How did you know I would be here?"

Drake sat up, adjusting herself to appropriately talk to the man across from her. "I didn't, at least not exactly. After my stunt with Madame Maria Hill, I had a feeling her commanding officer or whatever would not give up immediately. But I had no idea _you'd_ be the one to meet me. I just figured out who you are as you walked up to my modest table arrangement."

"Figured out?"

"Of course, my good man. I've been around long enough to know who the bloody fuck Captain America is! Fabulous job against the Nazi Party, especially H.Y.D.R.A." Her face darkened slightly, "Their treachery upon humanity and the mortal soul was beyond despicable. That was the first war in a long time that actually made me fear for the worst. The very first time was when Alexander the Great took the world by storm. He was blonde too, you know."

Steve honestly didn't know what to say. How did he go from meeting a dangerous woman to someone who was praising his service in the War and comparing it to a warrior conquering the ancient world?

Noticing his confused face, Drake blinked owlishly. "Oh! Silly me! I don't usually drivel off like that. I go by the name Drake, though I wonder if anyone figured out my riddle yet. Pleasure to meet you," she said amiably, offering her hand across the table.

The Captain couldn't help but stare at the black skeleton pattern mapping itself out across her skin like a blueprint, diagraming where each and every bone in her hand would be located exactly. He lifted his hand to meet hers, and found her grip to be just, if not stronger than his. It had been a long time since anyone had strength like that when he shook their hand. Most of the time he'd have to gently squeeze unless he wanted to break their bones, but not this woman.

"Steve Rogers," he replied in kind.

Lowering her hand away from his with a nod, Drake smashed the butt of her stub into the tray, grabbing at the half empty box before her and drawing out her next fix. She fumbled around for her lighter, holding it in her free hand, when a larger hand shot out and stopped her.

Drake raised an eyebrow. "What, do you think I'll light my damn hair on fire? I'm not that dim-witted."

Rogers shook his head, "May I?" He said simply, suggesting to her an old tradition rarely practiced.

Her eyes widened, her mouth forming a small 'o' at him. "Oh. Well, haven't had anyone do this for me in years." She forfeited her lighter to him, holding her cigarette out. Steve flicked the igniter, watching as the single little flame heated the smoker. Turning it off and placing it in the space in front of her, the man watched as she took a slow drag and blew the smoke through her nose like a dragon from a fairy tale.

"Lord, the last man to do that was a friendly old colored man who knew how to work a saxophone like no one I have ever seen. He lived in New Orleans and thought voodoo was real. Funny bloke, but good man nonetheless."

The captain smirked boyishly, "You have a story for everything, Ma'am."

Drake chuckled. "Good observation. It's a habit I have when I meet interesting people. I try to impart some type of wisdom and hand out a few riddles in the meanwhile."

Taking another short drag, she seemed to sober up. "Now, you know why you're here and I know why I'm here. What are your questions?" asked Drake with a controlled tone.

Steve blinked. Didn't she just say _not_ to be formal? He shoved the thought away and just decided to go with it. "Why is Fury so bent on bringing you in?"

The woman blinked right back at him. "That's the great Caesar's name? The one man who lords over his high walls with fear and secrecy? Fury... Hmmm. He doesn't happen to have an eyepatch and a hefty scar on his face, does he?"

Again sounds of panic and shock sounded in Steve's earpiece. The super soldier himself looked just as surprised. This woman was _crazy_.

"Just how do you seem to know all of this?" Demanded Rogers, discarding his questions and finding himself feeling threatened.

Drake looked straight at him with her cold dark eyes. "Haven't you solved the riddle yet?"

"Yes, but-"

"But nothing!" She said loudly, "If you solved my riddle, then you know better than most mortals in all of existence! What is my real name, the reason for everything? The answer is the riddle, as the answer is the truth. And I am _always_ truthful."

The Captain stared at her. "You cannot be serious," he muttered.

The woman had enough reason to actually look serious. "Pleasure to meet you Steven Joseph Rogers, let reintroduce myself," she said levelly, "I am Death."

All the Avengers were stunned into silence. When had this short exchange become so controversially insane?

Death spoke again, though hushed as she slowly gained volume. "The Bible states that God made life, then rested on Sunday. Sunday is technically my Birthday. Jesus was supposedly revived by God, born into being His son. I actually brought him back, but not into a human, or I guess _mortal_, form. He and what you would call God became the Light, Life, and Humanity. It was like giving a purpose to the opposite spectrum, an equal to my destruction. I had been sentient, it had not been. So, now Life was sentient just as I was, and thus two forces of nature have control of the puppet strings of mortals."

Steve slowly began shaking his head in disbelief, finally coming back to himself after minutes of stunned silence. "But that makes no sense. How can something that happens to everyone be a living thing? **_You_** can't be living."

"I'm not, Cap'n," she said in a flat tone, "I'm nothing but a bucket of battered old bones wrapped up in skin with no heart and no organs. I _am_cold, and I physically can only _feel_ cold."

Rogers glanced at the cigarette in-between her long fingers. "Is that why you smoke so much?" he stated openly, "To keep yourself feeling warm?"

Death nodded solemnly. "When you were freed from the ice of the Arctic, how did you feel for awhile? Were you haunted by the phantom numbing pricks of cold, leaving you seeking thicker clothes and a heated fire? Yet, as much as you tried, you still felt that lingering freeze which kept you imprisoned so very long..."

The two individuals stared at each other, a strange understanding suddenly put between them. "Though I may be something ancient, which comes as a bit of a shock to you, I will tell you honestly I mean no harm to you or other mortals. I have morals I follow, and rarely do I ever break them."

Rogers regarded the feminine entity in a new light, but still questions bothered him. "I still don't understand what Fury wants with you. What did you do to make him so..."

"Paranoid?" she suggested.

Steve nodded to her. "Well," said Death, "A while ago, I'm not totally sure on the date, I had lowered my guard and foolishly appeared on camera out of nowhere in the middle of the San Francisco Airport. That must have tripped plenty of wires in your grand Caesar's book. He tracked me from then on, monitoring my movements but failing overall on figuring out who I was. Up til' now, I was probably a fucking wild card for his cute little super-secret club until the slip-up with the gun smuggling. Blithering idiots those crooks were. So, like any old time when my cover is blown, I wiped my shitty apartment clean of all my things, had a nice chat with Maria Hill as a sort of final taunt, and cut all ties. I'm living out the back of my car right now trying to figure out where to go next."

"So you're not out to take over the world with an alien invasion?" he joked.

Death rolled her eyes. "No, I'm not going to create a portal into space and allow thousands of Chitauri overrun New York City. Loki had been extremely foolish to think he could get away with that."

Steve raised a brow. "Would you have stepped in?"

At that, the woman laughed. "You people can be so _thick_ sometimes! I did 'step in' so to speak. You're just not _aware_ of the way I did. Blame your Caesar for that, Cap'n."

Death smashed her eighth stub for the entire night, drawing out yet another one and swiftly lighting it up. Taking a few steady drags, her charcoal eyes wandered the club. She let out a sigh, "I hate to ruin this strange conversation we're having, Cap'n, but I have a feeling your superior wasn't playing around when he gave you orders. You probably want me to come with you, am I right?"

Steve furrowed his brow, "Yes, but if you're not a risk, there shouldn't be a problem."

Death shook her head sadly, as if pitying the soldier. "You don't get it, Steven. Your Caesar is a leader, a leader of spies and the master of espionage. he knows how to manipulate and obviously knows your team. You as a person will always follow orders because that's the right thing to do. Tony Stark will vouch for me, being the rebel, and in the end be ignored. Black Widow will obey and keep her opinions to herself. The Hawk just the same, except he will try to speak out against it. Banner has morals, yet Fury will intimidate him.

"Where does that leave me? Something to be ID'd like a feral dog at some Zoo in case I break free from my cage? Or a new experiment to be poked and prodded under a microscope until I crack and kill them all? Your team has an understanding of what I am. I am Death, and many of your teammates have evaded me. You have as well, on multiple accounts. I am unpredictable, despondent, and jaded. I can happen at anytime, and I can take anyone. Be them man or woman, rich or poor, they are all equal before my eyes. I do my duty without query, and never faltering. But because I claim the dead and the dying, and because I am the destruction to Life's creation, I am jaded. Nothing shocks me, and it certainly doesn't amuse me; I take no joy in doing it.

"But what does your dear Caesar think? He thinks nothing. He is a human with the sole purpose of being the man with the big guns. He has no other drive except to make sure that he's prepared for everything. He watches everything, like a shadow watches a person's back. Control is what he wants, but he plays with fire that creates chaos. If you give him someone like me, there is no need for anything else. With a single touch, I can end your life. With a single glance, I can see every life story of all the people in this club. I know how each person will probably die, what legacy they leave behind, _everything_.

"So Cap'n, do not believe in dreams and hopes that lack any flavor. They're ash settling over a scene of destruction. Illusions most of these drug addicted business men seek when they smoke to find their high. Don't fall prey, or you'll be done for."

With a grunt, Death stood up and roughly stuffed her jacket pockets with cigarette packs. Disregarding the stunned soldier, she strolled over to another booth where a man seemed to be abusing a stripper. Steve watched as the well over six foot tall deity dragged the bruised female from the man's unsavory lap, throwing her to a empty couch. The woman was screaming, eyes wet and makeup smeared. Her arms were crossed over her chest, cradling herself. Death's cold charcoal eyes glinted menacingly at the blubbery gray-haired man, who was dressed in an overly expensive tan suit with a flashy gold Rolex on his left wrist. The two other ladies that had saddled up next to him had rushed in a panic towards their fellow woman, leaving the entity to glare at the business man laden with a stomach of lard. Rogers wondered if Death was really kidding about being somewhat of a moody individual.

"Don't treat a woman like that, you son of a bitch!" roared Death. "She may not have the most savory of occupations, but that gives you no right to abuse human life! Do you want me to get a jack knife so we can stab her together?! Commit some back-alley strip club murder to make ourselves feel macho and devious like some cheap motherfucking movie?! Take your filthy blood money Edward Jack Browning and waste it somewhere else! Beware of the four bullets that'll end your life in three years time!" She snarled.

The man in question, an Edward Browning, was shaking visibly in complete terror. It took him little time to gather himself up and make a beeline for the back door, crying out in fear all the way. The other customers stared wide-eyed at Death, but as soon as the woman glanced their way, the club attendees immediately went back to their previous engagements. The bartender nodded to her in thanks, which the deity returned solemnly in kind. With a few brief consoling words towards the abused stripper, Death turned away and moved easily through the crowds. Steve silently cursed to himself as he got up to search for the six foot tall woman...

Plopping beside Tony Stark, Death smiled cheekily as she tapped him on the shoulder. The man jumped, sunglasses tittering precariously and his clothes falling into disarray. The female laughed wholeheartedly, also startling the gamma radiation scientist beside the billionaire.

"Ha-ha... Sorry to shock you. I have a habit of startling people."

Tony gave a firm shake of his head, as if to rid himself of fear. "Jesus, how about you don't sneak up on others? It's really good advice you know... Death?" He said quizzically.

The woman nodded. "I just came by to say that you have very bad habits yourself. If you keep evading your destined death day, it's going to bite you in the arse like a drugged hyena to an African's bum."

The playboy raised an eyebrow, "You came over here just to discuss with me my mortality?"

"Yes."

"You're crazy. You know Black Widow will be here within moments to technically _apprehend_ you with Tweetie Bird right on her tail, right?"

"Yes."

"Then why are we even talking?!" Cried Tony, both bothered by Death's legitimate presence and her statement about his 'habits' of cheating death.

Death chuckled, "Because I have enough sympathy to give you a heads-up, and I need to ask Sparky for a white rabbit-_**'EY SPARKY!**_"

The bartender appeared, smiling devilishly. "What is it, my Punk Princess?"

"I need a white rabbit," she said with a sensuous tone that the two scientists would never have expected from an entity that embodied destruction. The two geniuses looked at her like she was clinically insane.

"Bugs Bunny, Roger Rabbit, or the infamous Rainbow Dash?" He asked, wriggling his eyebrows as she spoke with an equally husky tone.

"Rainbow. I'll be needing a competent partner in crime."

"Be right back then, Sugar Plum."

The two men watched as the male behind the bar disappeared through a side door. They turned to Death, dumbstruck.

"Did that guy just blatantly flirt with you?" questioned Bruce.

"And you fucking flirted back?" Added Stark.

She nodded dreamily, "Sometimes I wish I wasn't a God-like being and I could just live out a wild life of adventure. That bartender was the best shag I ever had, third to the Peverell brothers who are second to the Master of... never mind," she finished shaking herself free of her thoughts.

Glancing around, Death nodded to herself absently before jumping over the bar counter and grabbing a large bottle of Smiroff Whipped Cream. She hurried to the side door, catching 'Sparky' just in time to grab a very large white rabbit and plant a healthy kiss on his lips. Natasha was swiftly closing in, followed by Steve and Clint who looked flabbergasted at the scene of Death making out with the bartender. Rushing by Stark and snagging his beanie, Death hopped over the counter once again and sped off toward the door.

As she flew out, Death nodded to the bouncer. "Have a good night, Jerry! Say hello to Diana and the kids for me!" she yelled over her shoulder. The black man shook his head, a smirk on his face. The Avengers shot out the door moments later, trying to catch up to the willowy young woman with long raven hair and charcoal eyes.

"They're in it for sure if Rag-Bones leads them down the lane," muttered the bouncer, Jerry.

Little did that large man know, that was the famous superhero team the Avengers chasing after Death herself, who was holding a large fluffy white rabbit named Rainbow Dash in the crook of her right arm and a large bottle of Smiroff Whipped Cream vodka in the other. Tony Stark's beanie was pulled over her head, never to be gained again.

* * *

Somewhere in the world a cellphone was ringing like an old fashioned telephone. A man picked it up on the first ring.

"Report."

"_Rogers, Sir. Death-Ah! Ow! No Stark! I... I mean Grim, just escaped. She fled the club faster than we expected and jumped into a beaten up Jeep with no legible license plates. For some reason, she ran off with a large white rabbit... God, alright alright Tony! Supposedly named Rainbow Dash from what Stark tells me, a bottle of vodka and Stark's beanie. I really don't know what to make of it, Sir._"

The man sighed exasperatedly, "Did you at least get to talk to her? Anything she has to say can be some type of clue as to her next move."

"_She said plenty, Sir. Grim defended her position during the gun smuggling incident and revealed a great deal about herself. But one thing I can be certain about, Sir: She has a real dislike for S.H.I.E.L.D._"

The male nodded to himself, "I see. Anything else to report at this current time?"

"_Nat was lucky enough to throw a tracker into the back of Grim's Jeep. We should be able to locate her that way._"

"Good. I can get the Tech group on that immediately. Report back to the Helicarrier for a debrief and a written report."

"Yes, Sir."

The man hung up, staring at the cellphone in his dark-skinned hands for a few moments before he shoved it into his pockets and clicked on his bluetooth attached to his ear.

"Agent Hill."

"_...Yes, Director?"_

"Tighten the security on SS-04. I have a feeling it won't be long until we'll have both Grim and SS-04 on the Helicarrier together. I'm not about to take chances."

"_Affirmative_."

Closing the signal, the man paced for a few moments, brooding over the upcoming meeting that was soon to take place. He was going to be totally fucked if he doesn't tread carefully from here.

_**Extremely careful.**_


End file.
